


Holy fire

by kianne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Character Study, Dean's first solo case, Gen, Homophobia, Internalised Homophobia, i am going to smash john winchesters kneecaps to dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianne/pseuds/kianne
Summary: He can barely look at the bodies when he uncovers them. Refuses to let his eyes linger on the crosses round their necks like nooses. Holier than he’ll ever be. The burn in his muscles feels clean, and maybe burning these nuns will purify him too. Maybe this will be his penance. Maybe it’ll be enough, and he can go home unblemished, his hands blistered and raw.John Winchester sends Dean on his first solo hunt for his seventeenth birthday, it's a salt and burn of two nuns who were in love and had been discovered and killed themselves.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	Holy fire

**Author's Note:**

> today has been a wild ride on tumblr so here we are i guess. warnings for internalised homophobia and john winchester being a terrible father. implied alcoholism and child abuse.

_Dean turns seventeen today. We went shooting. Then I sent him out on his first hunt. I’ve let him take the lead before, but I’ve always been there to back him up. This time he’s on his own. Partly it’s a test, and partly I wanted to get some time with Sammy. Should be no problem fr Dean. Ghosts of two nuns hunting St. Stephen’s Indian Mission in Riverton, Wyoming. Simple salt-and-burn mission. Nuns in love with each other, then discovered. Killed themselves. I figured Dean would take care of it no problem, but I still stayed close by with Sammy._

_Dean took care of the nuns just like I thought he would, but I don’t think I’m going to be sending him on any more solos soon. That one was a little tense._

_-_ John Winchester's Journal

  
When he was younger Dean would be woken on the morning of his birthday by a face-full of Sammy leaping on his bed and crying “happy birthday” with delight. It’s Dean’s 17th and Sammy is 13 and much less enthusiastic about his brother these days. It’s fine, the hero worship wouldn’t have sat quite right anymore. Instead, Dean is woken up by the sound of the motel door banging open. Dean’s gun is aimed at his father before his eyes have even focussed. When he sees who it is he drops it onto the bed and wipes the sleep from his eyes. 

“Get up,” His dad says gruffly, tossing a rifle so it lands on the mattress at Dean’s feet. “Target practice in ten.” 

“Yes sir,” Dean says, trying not to sound too tired. John leaves without another word so Dean drags himself to the side of the bed to fish some fresh clothes out of his duffle. 

“Hey,” Sam says, his voice casual but carrying the slight hint of an apology, “happy birthday.” 

Dean’s lips twitch in the approximation of a smile. “Ah, ’s just another day.”

  
The routine of shooting is easy. He’s been shooting since he was six, been obsessed with guns since he was four and saw his dad waste a shifter for the first time. He understands the world when there’s a gun in his hands, it focusses him, narrows him down to his finger on the trigger, the monster at the other end of the barrel. He’s pure, like this. 

Sam sits a few feet away on a tree stump, rifle carelessly discarded next to him. He’s reading a text book, and Dean thinks maybe he does it out of spite for their dad. Sure, the kid wants to get his diploma, but parading that around in front of their dad? Dean thinks hopelessly that if he’s a good enough soldier today it’ll keep dad distracted enough that he’ll forget to be pissed at Sam. It works some, but not enough to keep them from bickering over the point after an hour anyway. Eventually, Sam glowers, balances his book on his knees and snatches up the rifle, firing off a few shots without even standing up. The first two hit the cans they’re using as targets, the third misses. Dean winces, but Sam just chucks the rifle back down next to him and snatches his book back up. Dean steps in quickly. 

“Dad can you chuck some cans up so I can get some moving target practice?” He asks overly casually, reloading his gun with a loud click. He can feel Sam seething behind him. He wants a fight. _Thinks_ he wants a fight. Stupid kid. Dad glares over his shoulder at Sam and Dean holds his breath. The tension breaks and Dad wordlessly goes to collect the cans. 

  
The stack of papers slaps down on the table in front of Dean messily, landing half on his plate and getting a sticky smear of jelly on the corner of a few of the sheets. Dean wipes it off on the heel of his palm quickly before snatching the stack up. 

“Case?” He asks, chewing his mouthful of sandwich quickly. If Dad decides they’re leaving now he won’t have time to finish it. 

“Salt ’n burn,” Dad confirms, barely looking at Dean. “Riverton, Wyoming. ‘Bout two hours out from here.”

“We heading out now?”

“We’re gonna sit this one out,” Dad says, “you’re twenty-one, plenty old enough to handle such a piss easy case by yourself.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, “right yeah, looks a breeze.” He flips through the articles, scanning them briefly. Two ghosts. He’s never even hunted one ghost by himself, the thought of two at once is a little overwhelming. Then he realises he’d be leaving Sammy alone with dad for the whole day, and swallows roughly against his suddenly dry throat. 

“You sure you don’t wanna come, Sammy?” Asks around Dad with false cheer. Dad places himself in between them and the air grows cold. Dean tries not to shrink back into himself. 

“You’re taking this one solo, boy. It’s your opportunity to prove yourself.”

“Yes sir. I won’t let you down,” Dean says, eyes averted. 

He packs his bags quickly, resolutely avoiding Sam’s gaze until Dad leaves the room in pursuit of another beer from his room. 

“Don’t antagonise him, Sammy,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light but firm. 

“I’m not _gonna_ ,” Sam protests petulantly. “I’ve got homework to do.” 

“No. You do as he says today. This is- this is your chance to spend some quality time with your old man,” He smiles, and it feels like acid on his face. 

“I don’t want to spend quality time with him. I want to get my assignment finished.”

“Goddammit, Sam- _please_ , just do as he says. He wants to spend some time with you, just _one day_ , give him that.” It sounds dangerously close to begging. Sam glowers for a second more before flipping his book shut exaggeratedly. Dean relaxes a little, pats Sammy on the shoulder and grabs his duffel. 

John’s leaning on the hood of the impala swigging from a bottle when Dean closes the motel door behind him. It’s only beer, which is a good sign. If it had been whiskey Dean might have had to find a reason to take Sammy with him after all. 

“Don’t let me down,” Is all John says, pushing off the car and clapping Dean on the shoulder a little rougher than necessary. Dean tries not to flinch or pull away and nods. 

“Yessir.” 

  
It’s not late by the time Dean pulls up outside St. Stephen’s Indian Mission, Riverton, but the mid January sun is already starting to set so he has to turn the overhead light on to read through the stack of papers his Dad gave him. He flips through them, he barely has to do any leg work at all; John’s all but finished the case for him already. All he has to do is dig up the two graves, salt ‘em and burn. Barely seems worth sending him out alone on. But then he stops, something catching his eye. His heart stutters in his chest, blood turning icy in his veins. 

Two nuns. In love with each other. They’d been found out, killed themselves rather than live with it. His throat is suddenly so dry he can’t breathe. 

His dad knows. 

_He knows he knows he knows he knows_.

The blood is pounding in his head so hard he thinks he might black out or throw up. 

Two nuns in love. 

Holier than he’ll ever be, and still monsters. Monster’s he has to burn. Because his Dad knows.

Nothing had even _happened_ , John couldn’t know- there was no way-

They’d just been hanging out, Trevor had kissed _Dean_ , not the other way around. And Dean was- he had been drunk. It only took him so long to pull away because he was drunk and it surprised him, he wasn’t— 

  
His hands are raw by the time he’s dug the two graves out, his back screaming and his legs trembling with the exertion. The burn in his eyes is from the sweat dripping from his brow, and it’s dark, anyway. He should have burned the first nun as soon as he finished digging that grave before moving to the next, but something made him wait. They died together, he should send them off together now. _Dad will know, Dad will know, Dad will know._

His Dad used to make him dig the graves when he was little. Would turn it into a game so he’d dig faster. He feels slightly sick at the thought of turning digging up dead bodies into a game for a seven year old. He feels even more sick when he hits the second coffin. He doesn’t want to open it. Convinced whatever lies inside it is unclean, impure, monstrous. Even more afraid that it’s not. He steels himself, tells himself to shut up and pry the rusty nails out of the rotting wood. He isn’t going to be infected. 

He can barely look at the bodies when he uncovers them. Refuses to let his eyes linger on the crosses round their necks like nooses. _Holier than he’ll ever be_. The burn in his muscles feels clean, and maybe burning these nuns will purify him too. Maybe this will be his penance. Maybe it’ll be enough, and he can go home unblemished, his hands blistered and raw. 

It’s when he’s reaching for the box of salt that he feels something slam into him and he goes flying across the graveyard to smack hard into a jagged tombstone. It winds him slightly, but he’s back on his feet fast, eyes scanning his surroundings to pinpoint his attacker. There are two figures stood in between him and his supplies, skin pale against their black robes. His gun loaded with rock salt is blocked, but the iron crowbar is ten feet to his right, he could dive for it. 

They’re young he realises, cant be five years older than him. There’s a second there where these aren’t monsters stood in front of him; they’re just people. People who loved each other. And maybe he’s the monster because he’s going to kill them. 

He’s long since past the childish notion that monsters will show him any sympathy because he’s a kid - he’s seventeen now anyway, hardly a kid anymore, if he ever was one - but for a sudden dizzying moment he thinks he sees a flash of sympathy behind their eyes. As if they recognise him as one of their own. It’s a delusional thought, and completely misplaced because he’s not— but the thought paralyses him for just a split second too long and the nuns are on him. His head connects painfully with the grave again and black spots pop in his vision. Then one of them is on top of him, finger circling his heart mockingly before her claw like nails are pushing into his chest and he’s gasping in pain. 

“Sammy!” He calls, before realising Sammy isn’t there. How many times have other hunters told him to never hunt alone, what was he thinking coming out here by himself when he knew he’d be outnumbered?

He remembers the crowbar, closer to him now - he fell towards it. He scrabbles around in the dirt, desperately groping for it and trying to ignore the way the nun’s nails feel like they’re about to meet bone. At last his hand connects with cold metal and he grabs it and swings, slicing through both nuns in one arc. They disappear into smoke and he lies on the damp ground panting and wheezing for a moment. He presses a hand to his chest, it comes away bloody but it’s not bad. 

He’s on his feet and moving by the time the nuns rematerialise, he dives for the shotgun and rolls, shooting them from the floor and watching as they once again dissolve into smoke. He scrabbles for the lighter fluid and salt and chucks a generous amount in the first grave, flicking his lighter open with shaking hands. The first body goes up in flames and he turns in time to see the first nun set alight and then vanish. The scream of her lover is the more terrible, ripping through the quiet night. I’m sorry he thinks wildly. I didn’t want to separate you. He scrubs the unclean thought away. She was a monster, they both are. He’s doing his job, ending them. 

The second nun flies at him, but he’s ready for her and blasts her through with salt. His feet slip on the wet grass as he sprints for the second grave, flinging salt before he even reaches it. Something grabs at his foot and he tumbles forward, chest hitting the hard ground and knocking the air out of him again. He feels the nun climb on top of him, fingers pressing at the same spot but in his back. He thinks, for a second, that it would be easier to let her rip his heart out. That maybe he deserves it. Maybe without his heart it would be over. But then he realises he’d be leaving Sammy alone without anyone to look after him, he grits his teeth. 

Rather than try and flip her off him, he wriggles his arm free, squirting lighter fluid over the edge of the open grave and hoping it hits its target. The second lighter sparks alight first time and he could cry from relief as he tosses that too into the pit, just as he feels the skin on his back split. 

The fire that burns at his back is holy as it licks up the monster pinning him to the ground, and he almost doesn’t roll over to put it out. Tears sting his eyes as he grits his teeth through the pain as he lies there for a long while, arms spread eagle and bloody chest heaving. 

  
His dad knows. This was his penance. 

  
It’s late when he gets back to the motel room and his hands are trembling. He’s hoping Dad will be back in his own room so Dean can get cleaned up in peace, but he tugs his jacket closed over his bloody chest just in case. He was right to. When he pushes the door to his and Sam’s room open, his gaze lands on John, sat quietly at the little table, bathed in the light from the crappy desk light that needs its bulb replacing. There’s a glass in his hand. The bottle of whiskey at his elbow is half drained. Sam was on the far bed, pretending to be asleep. He swallows. 

“Dad,” He says. It’s quiet for a long moment. Dean closes the door behind him. 

“How’d the hunt go?” Dad says, and there’s a hint of mocking in his voice. And- shit. He’d been there. He’d seen Dean screw up. 

“Went alright,” Dean says, aiming for nonchalance, like nothing that had just happened was out of the ordinary. 

“Really?” John says, his tone icy. “Because I saw you hesitate and almost get yourself killed. So what. Happened?” He enunciates every word clearly, each one thrown like a knife. 

“Not having backup freaked me and I froze, just for a second. It was a stupid mistake and it won’t happen again, sir,” He says, voice businesslike, spine rigid. 

Dean expects Dad to start yelling, tenses in anticipation for a blow. He tries not to cringe back when John pushes to his feet. But he just walks past Dean, bottle in hand. 

“I don’t think you’ll be doing any more solo hunts for a while,” He says, and closes the door behind him. 

Dean stays frozen on the spot for a full minute after Dad leaves, fists clenched and barely able to breathe. His eyes burn but he doesn’t let any tears fall. It’s the sound of sheets rustling that finally breaks him out of it. 

“You okay?” Sam’s voice is quiet, uncertain. 

“Yeah, go back to sleep.” 

“Are you hurt?”

“Nah.” Dean drops his bag and heads to the bathroom, snatching up the first aid kit as he goes. 

“I can help,” Sam insists, but Dean closes the bathroom door firmly behind him. 

  
When he returns to the bedroom, fresh dressing on his chest but his back bare, there’s a card on his pillow. It’s a shitty gas station card, not even in an envelope, and crushed as if it had been hastily shoved in a jacket pocket. The price tag is still on the back. Inside it reads ‘Dean. Happy birthday. Sam’

Sam’s pretending to sleep again, so Dean tucks the card under his pillow alongside his gun. 

“Could you get my back for me?” He says. “I can’t reach it.”

**Author's Note:**

> john winchester turn your location on


End file.
